


Written on the Body

by SadCannibalNoises



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Stay tuned for further tags as we go along, You guys it's a tattoo AU, and it's a Hannibal AU, i'm not sure this even needs tagging, there's gonna be blood, there's gonna be needles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5720026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadCannibalNoises/pseuds/SadCannibalNoises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal wonders just what these killers mean to Will, that he has to go through a ritual to set them aside, and that the ritual involves branding himself in this way.   </p>
<p>Not for the first time, he thinks that this part of his work is closer to therapy than anything else.  There’s no faster way inside someone’s head than learning what matters so much to them that they want it permanently etched into their skin. That they’ll shed blood for it.</p>
<p>  <i>Or: What if Hannibal had found his way into a different sort of career, one that allows indulgences for art, blood, and psychological prying all at once?  And what if Will wanted to pay him for the privilege of being marked?  Welcome to Hannibal Lecter, Genius Tattoo Artist But Still Also A Dick Who Kills People For Fun.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Written on the Body

> Written on the bodyis a secret code only visible in certain lights: the accumulations of a lifetime gather there. In places the palimpsest is so heavily worked that the letters feel like braille. ~Jeanette Winterson

Hannibal’s last appointment of the day is a new-client consultation, and it’s not starting off particularly well.  Mr. Graham is late, and hasn’t done him the courtesy of calling.

Hannibal glances out the window one more time, then shrugs and sets about closing up the shop.  He’ll give it another fifteen minutes and then head home.  Most of the close-up work is already done - his assistants and apprentice handle the cleaning and sterilizing, the cash is handled, the trash taken out.  But his studio is his small kingdom and he doesn’t rest until he’s sure everything is left the way he likes it.  He checks the waiting area and straightens the portfolios and the magazines, does a quick inspection of the work rooms, and looks at the clock one more time.

He’s about to leave when the door jingles and a whirlwind of nervous energy walks in, in the form of a man with dark curls, glasses, five-day stubble, and the eyes of someone who hasn’t slept in far too long, dark shadows under them.  He slings his bag onto the waiting room table so hard it skids to a stop at the far end, nearly falling off the other side and knocking off several of the magazines in the process.  He stands awkwardly in the center of the room like he’s expecting to be kicked out, staring fixedly at a point somewhere to the left of Hannibal’s face.

“I’m sorry to be so late. My job sometimes runs to unexpected hours and I didn’t have your number with me to call. Is there still time to do this?  Um. Hi. I’m Will Graham.  You’re Hannibal?”

Hannibal would like to be annoyed but isn’t, quite.  He tries to remember if he knows what the man does for a living, from their brief email exchange to set up the consultation.  Mr. Graham’s a referral from Beverly Katz, so likely some form of law enforcement, if they’re colleagues.  It doesn’t do to antagonize law enforcement, given his extracurricular hobbies.

Hannibal swallows the impulse to be irritated and replaces it with a friendly smile intended to put the other man at ease.  “Yes, I am.  And you’re my last appointment of the day, so it’s not a problem.  Please, come in and sit down, Mr. Graham.”

“Will, please.  Mr. Graham makes you sound like one of my students, and I wouldn’t let any of them near me with a needle.”

“A teacher with unexpected evening hours?”

“A teacher with an unpleasant and unpredictable side job.”  Will shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the line of questioning, and follows Hannibal back to his work room after retrieving a small pile of papers from the wayward bag.

The work room is small, decorated in subdued colors but clean and brightly lit, with a table and chairs and several binders full of portfolio art. There’s no flash to be seen. Hannibal didn’t like doing flash art when he had to, in the early days, and he doesn’t do it on general principle now that he runs his own studio.  He can afford now to pick and choose the work he’ll do.

Will declines a drink of water, falls into the nearest seat like his legs won’t hold him up long enough to make it to the one on the opposite side of the table, and drops his small handful of papers onto the empty table surface.

Hannibal doesn’t look at them yet.  He takes a moment to size up his new client and decides he’s probably a first-timer.  He seems too agitated, exhausted yet somehow vibrating with barely-contained energy, for someone who’s been through this before.  Although maybe he’s just like that anyway.  It’s a place to start the conversation, at any rate.  “Is this your first tattoo, Will?”

Will’s still looking up, down, to the side, anywhere but directly at Hannibal as he shakes his head.  “No, it’ll be my third.  I’m considering having some cover-up work done on the others, but Bev says you don’t do that.”

“Generally, no.  I prefer to start with a blank canvas.  Sometimes I take one on if it’s an interesting enough challenge.  Let’s start with what you have in mind for your new work, and we can perhaps discuss the old work at a future session.”   He’s surprised that Will isn’t a first-timer after all, and surprised about being surprised - it doesn’t happen to him very often.  “Please tell me a bit about what you’re looking for.”

“Bev said you don’t take much in the way of direction; you like to do most of the design yourself.”

“That’s true.  But you’re the one who’ll live with my design, so it needs to reflect your wishes.  You’re more than just my canvas, you know.  Although I do enjoy the rare client who prefers to let me guide the process entirely.”

Something sparks somewhere behind Will Graham’s eyes, like maybe he’s looking for someone to take his decisions away.  Take away whatever it is that makes him look this haunted.  It’s an odd thought, flitting through Hannibal’s mind and then dismissed easily.  He doesn’t do that sort of project on a first-time client, not until they’ve worked together enough to have built some rapport and some sense for each other’s aesthetic preferences.

Will closes his eyes as if it hurts to keep them open, and drops his head low for a moment, before he speaks.  “My other job. The one that made me late tonight.  I work with the FBI, sometimes, to help them identify killers.  A very particular kind of killer.”

It’s just as well that the man’s eyes are closed; he doesn’t take in Hannibal’s sudden tension, or the way his eyes roam the room cataloguing the sharp objects, the heavy objects, the space Will occupies between Hannibal and the door.

Will sighs heavily, unaware of any of that, and goes on.  “The tattoos are part of that. When we catch one. I… it’s a sort of…”  He sputters to a halt and it sounds like it hurts to talk when he goes on.  “Closure is trite.  But something like that.  A delineation.  One of the ways I put it behind me.”

_ Interesting _ .

“So you’ve caught one, then?  And you’re looking to honor the work.”

Will shoves the papers across the table, almost rudely. Hannibal leafs through them. There are a few different images of a bird, grey with a white belly, streaks of black on wings, tail, and head.  There’s another photo of a skull, some sort of deer-like creature with curving antlers.

Will lets him flip through the images before he continues.  “The bird’s a shrike.  They call it the butcher bird. It….reminds me of this last case.  You might have read about it.”

Hannibal nods noncommittally.  He’d read about the Minnesota Shrike.  He’d thought his work was a bit trite, a bit simplistic.  But he’d had a good run of things before the authorities had caught up. He taps the page with the antlers lightly.  “And this?”

“Also part of the case.  I can’t share all the details and you don’t need them for this; I’m not looking for anything extremely specific.  I’ve seen the work you’ve done for Bev.  It’s beautiful.”  Will says that with an odd emphasis, like it’s not a word he uses much.  “And I looked at your portfolio online.  I trust you to take the general inspiration and make it work.  That sort of Japanese style you use so often is amazing; I’d like something like that.”

Hannibal had pegged Will for someone who’d want to micromanage his work; he’s pleased to have been wrong twice in one conversation.  “What are you thinking about size and placement?”

“I’m thinking shoulder, right around here.”  Will indicates the placement and size he has in mind.  “But I could be persuaded to have some flexibility if you come up with something that needs to be bigger or smaller to work well. Needs to be easily coverable for when I teach  And it does need to be on the left - I’ve got scar tissue on the right that would be a pain in the ass to work around.”

Hannibal thinks about that for a minute, and then gestures at the pictures.  “May I keep these?”

Will hands them over with an odd sort of reluctance; Hannibal wonders just what they mean to him.  What these killers the man hunts mean to him, that he has to go through this ritual to set them aside, and that the ritual involves branding himself in this way.  

Not for the first time, he thinks that this part of the work is closer to therapy than anything else.  There’s no faster way someone’s head than learning what matters so much to them that they want it permanently etched into their skin. That they’ll shed blood for it.

They talk for a few more minutes, ironing out some of the details and forming some rough ideas together.  They schedule a date for Will’s first session in a month, and Hannibal promises to work up a rough sketch and e-mail it sooner so they can refine it a bit in the meanwhile.  He reviews all the usual preparation information with Will, who shrugs it off impatiently - “I’ve done this before. I’m not going to show up drunk. Bev seems to have invited herself along and I can’t promise  _ she _ won’t be drunk.”

There, it’s almost a joke.  Almost a smile.  Apparently Will  _ can _ smile when the mood strikes him. He’s relaxed a bit now that they’re on to the easy stuff, the routine stuff, not digging into just why he’s looking for a permanent reminder of a serial killer he helped capture.

Hannibal takes a moment to consider the force of nature that is Beverly Katz - a half-sleeve nearly done with one more session next week and probably a final one after that, and a completed abstract piece on her calf - and mirrors the smile.  “I don’t make a habit of encouraging my clients to bring inebriated friends, but in Beverly’s case I can make an exception as long as she’s not having work done herself that day. I know she’ll behave herself in here if she wants to finish up that sleeve.”

“She does.  She’s been on about it for weeks.  I’m afraid she doesn’t get to show it off much with the lab coat, but I think she’s given up wearing sleeved shirts altogether outside of work, just so she can show it off.  The colors are quite striking.”

Hannibal warms at the implied praise.  “It’s turning out nicely. I’m glad she likes it.  I’ll try to do as well by you.” 

Will had managed some eye contact for a few moments there but now he loses it again, ducking his head almost shyly.  “Is there anything else you need from me right now, or should I just wait for your email?”

“I think I’ve got enough to work with here.  I’ll be in touch with something for you to look at.  Please give Beverly my regards.”

Will gathers his bag from the waiting area and is off into the night.  Hannibal stays in the shop a while longer, cleaning up the mess Will made of the magazines, making notes that he’ll use later to work up a proper design.  He has some initial thoughts but wants to let them percolate in his subconscious for a while. Down in the darkness where all his best art comes from.

* * * *

Hannibal doesn’t think much more about his newest client over the next few days, but eventually he sits down with the photos and notes and some reference materials and sketches out something he thinks might fit the bill. 

The shrike perches on an antler; the rest of the skull is suggested more than drawn, it’s the bird that’s the focus.  He tries to capture, not exactly a sense of motion, but a sense of pent-up kinetic energy - motion  _ about _ to take place.  The curve of the antler should nicely accentuate the line of Will’s scapula, as if the shrike’s talons are digging into its wearer’s own bones.  As if they might draw beads of blood at any moment. He’s pleased with the work.

He photographs the sketch and sends it off to Will with a brief note requesting feedback.  It’s late when he sends it, after midnight.  He does most of his design work late at night when he can work undisturbed. He expects to wait a day or two for a response.  

He moves on to some other work and is briefly startled out of his concentration fifteen minutes later by the soft  _ ding _ of incoming email.  Apparently Will is also a night owl, or is still in the insomniac stretch that Hannibal had intuited from their meeting the other night.

His concentration’s already broken, so he pulls up the email and skims it, unsurprised at the response. Will likes the work idea but has some requests for adjustments. Of course he does.  Hannibal might have keeled over from shock if the tightly-wound man he’d met had been easygoing enough to accept the first drawing.  He sounds a little friendlier in writing, though, without the necessity of sorting out immediate social responses.  

Hannibal ponders for a moment and then writes back:

_ Will:  _

_ Your suggestions should be easy enough to accommodate.  I’ll send a new version in a few days.  I appreciate the speedy response - but shouldn’t you be asleep at this hour, with classes to teach? _

_ Hannibal _

He’s not really sure what makes him add the last bit. Whimsy, perhaps, or the slackening of boundaries that happens at the witching hour when normal rules don’t quite seem to apply.

Whimsy must also be why he lingers a few minutes, to see if there’ll be a response.  There is one, just before he’s about to shut down the computer.

_ I don’t have classes tomorrow, and I find sleeping to be an overrated pastime anyway. Doesn’t seem like you’re one to be talking, really.   Bev is trying to get me to come with her to her next session - if you think you’ll have the new drawing then, I could just take a look at it while I’m there, if that works better for you _ .  _ I haven’t confirmed with her yet but I assume I’ll give in eventually; she’s hard to say no to. I’m not actually sure she understands the word.  -W _

Hannibal checks his schedule and does a rapid calculation - yes, he should have something ready for Will to look at by Beverly’s appointment.  It’s always better to have these discussions in person. And he still can’t quite picture those two as friends; it may be interesting to see them together.

_ Will: _

_ I assure you, Beverly can be told no. You just need leverage - being her preferred tattoo artist really helps.  I’ve already got that role covered, so you’ll need to find your own method of persuasion. I suggest you say yes this time, though, as I believe I can have a revised design sketch for you by then.  I’ll reserve some extra time after her appointment for another consultation.  Let me know if you need to cancel.  Goodnight. _

_ Hannibal _

He doesn’t wait for a response this time. He’s fairly certain there won’t be one.  Will may turn out to be chattier in writing than in person, but that doesn’t mean he’ll respond to an email that doesn’t explicitly have a business purpose.  Hannibal has a pretty good sense for people and while he’s not sure he understands Will yet, he’s fairly certain he’s right about that much.

He shuts down the computer and puts away his sketches, turns off the lights in his study, and then heads for the basement, where he has other work awaiting him before he can call it a night.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait until this one was a little further along before I started publishing it but some of you have found your way here recently to some of my older stories and you've been so sweet that I wanted to reassure you I'm still alive. Stick around, this one ought to be fun! In, you know, that Hannibal way.


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